W
WideOpenPhoto
Guest
He is all of 19 years old. He is a short-haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances, is considered by society as half-man, half-boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country. His never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father’s…but he has never collected unemployment either.
He’s a recent high school graduate, he was probably an average student, pursued some for of sports activities, drives a ten-year-old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing…and 81-mm mortars. He is ten or fifteen pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field-strip a rifle in thirty seconds and reassemble it in less time…in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machinegun or grenade launcher…and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop…or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth…but never forgets to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you. If you are hungry, he’ll share his food. He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and his weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life…or take it…because that’s his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay (a PFC with two years in service makes about $1400 a month) and still find ironic humor in it all. He has wept - in public and in private – for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention…and tempers the burning desire to square away those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home…he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as his father, grandfather and great-grandfather did, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American fighting man that has kept this country free for over 200 years. He has asked nothing in return…except our friendship and understanding.
Remember his always. He has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.
He’s a recent high school graduate, he was probably an average student, pursued some for of sports activities, drives a ten-year-old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing…and 81-mm mortars. He is ten or fifteen pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field-strip a rifle in thirty seconds and reassemble it in less time…in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machinegun or grenade launcher…and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop…or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth…but never forgets to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you. If you are hungry, he’ll share his food. He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and his weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life…or take it…because that’s his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay (a PFC with two years in service makes about $1400 a month) and still find ironic humor in it all. He has wept - in public and in private – for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention…and tempers the burning desire to square away those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home…he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as his father, grandfather and great-grandfather did, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American fighting man that has kept this country free for over 200 years. He has asked nothing in return…except our friendship and understanding.
Remember his always. He has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.
Every man and woman willing to fight for our freedom deserve our respect and are above heros. Thank you WOP for everything you do. 
